


The New York Exhibition

by Rysler



Series: Seasons [3]
Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:29:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rysler/pseuds/Rysler
Summary: Phone sex entr'acte in the Seasons series.
Relationships: Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854)
Series: Seasons [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709995
Comments: 22
Kudos: 57
Collections: Merry Month of Masturbation 2020





	The New York Exhibition

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for supporting me in this crazy time. A little gift for such a lovely fandom.

Anne sat down on the hotel room bed and video-conferenced Ann.

Ann answered after two rings. Her smiling face filled the screen.

“Hi Ann,” Anne said breathlessly. “Did I wake you?”

Ann raised her eyebrows. “Did you wake me? Anne, it’s eight o’clock.”

“What?”

“It’s eight o’clock. What time did you think it was?”

“I—Surely after nine. I wanted to catch you when you were in bed but not asleep.”

“You did, did you?” Ann grinned. “Does time work differently in New York City?”

“I mean.” Anne’s mouth was dry. She’d spent the day thinking about Ann. Fantasizing about Ann. Missing Ann.

“Let me close up the house. Tell me about your day.” Ann’s face wobbled as she moved around her house. The background blurred.

“It’s really eight o’clock?” Anne asked.

“What did you do tonight?”

“We kicked off at six, I had dinner...” Anne pursed her lips, thinking.

“Dinner where?”

“Hotel bar?”

“What did you eat?” Ann tested the patio doors. Charlie barked in the background.

“Chicken.”

“Chicken?”

“I didn’t want indigestion,” Anne said. “Tonight.” Anne scuffed her toe in the carpet.

“Oh. Smart.”

“Did you have dinner?”

“Ages ago. Butternut squash curry,” Ann said.

“Does the whole house smell like curry?”

“Yup.”

Anne exhaled, jealous.

“Going upstairs now,” Ann said. The camera bounced along.

Anne had not moved from the bed, enchanted by Ann’s profile. Ann’s distracted gaze. Ann’s encouraging questions.

Ann sprawled onto her back and held the phone above her face. “How’s New York?”

“It feels far away,” Anne said.

“Is it different when you spend the night in Greenville?”

“I don’t feel the distance then,” Anne admitted. “You’re... I don’t know. You’re close enough.” She didn’t want to get spiritual. Not tonight.

“Mm.” Ann smiled into the phone, as if Anne was her whole world. “Are you in for the night?”

“Decidedly.”

“But you’re still wearing your suit.”

Anne looked at herself in the camera, then panned it over her body. She hadn’t really thought about it. “I guess so.”

“Take it off.”

Anne’s breath hitched. “Okay.”

She went into the bathroom, where she could set the phone up to face the mirror, knowing Ann could see her from the waist up. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Ann said, in a weighted voice, a voice Anne knew well.

Anne slid her suit jacket off. She hung it up over the shower.

“Is it weird?” Ann asked through the phone. “To be jealous of a jacket?”

“The jacket’s here and you’re not,” Anne said. “I hate it.”

“Me too,” Ann said thickly.

Anne began unbuttoning her blouse. She couldn’t see Ann, but she could feel Ann’s gaze on her, Ann’s intent focus on each unseating of the button, the gap over her breasts expanding. Then she stood in just her bra, waiting for Ann.

“Hurry up,” Ann said.

“Hurry up what?”

“Anne,” Ann said. “Take off your bra.”

Anne reached behind herself and unclasped the hook. She hunched forward, drawing the straps off herself. Looking at herself in the mirror was unnerving. Her breasts, prominent, forward, without Ann to claim them. She reached up for them herself, brushing the nipples with her thumbs.

“Anne,” Ann breathed again.

Anne shucked off her pants and underwear and went onto the bedroom again. She considered, then yanked down the comforter, settling on sheets, propped up by pillows. “I’m naked,” she said.

“I hate New York,” Ann said.

Ann was the exhibitionist. Ann could hardly get undressed without Anne watching her. Ann now decidedly upstaged Anne, by holding the phone close to her chest as she pulled off her shirt, so that Anne got a good view of chest and slope of breast. The bra fell away as if tissue paper, and Ann cheekily put the phone to her nipple.

“You’re torturing me,” Anne said.

“What do you miss most?” Ann asked.

It was a loaded question as Anne sprawled naked on too-crisp sheets, as the video feed showed only inches of Ann’s body when Anne wanted miles. What did Anne miss? She considered the answers that would have the most effect on Ann. Fortune favored the bold.

“I miss being inside you,” Anne said.

“Is that what you want?” Ann asked, in a pinched voice.

Ann’s face filled the phone screen. Anne wanted to see more. To see her breasts, her abdomen, her belly button, which welcomed Anne’s tongue. Her core. The length of her legs. Anne lifted two fingers into view. A salute.

“It’s not fair. That you’re so far away,” Ann said.

“I know,” Anne said. “I hate it.”

“I miss the way you fill the house. Your books and your smells and your brooding on the porch...”

“Ann.” Anne swallowed thickly.

“Is this what you want to see?” Ann tilted the camera to the blonde hair between her legs.

Anne warred with herself. She wanted it all and couldn’t have it, she wanted Ann’s eyes meeting hers. She wanted, too, to see Ann’s fingers slide between her legs, to touch what Anne longed to touch. She wanted intimacy and she wanted sex and she didn’t know which was which.

“Yes,” she finally said.

Ann settled into bed, sitting up against the headboard. She held the phone in her left hand and parted her folds with her right. Anne bit her lip at the trust Ann had in her. To not exploit the exposure she offered. To not judge the unflattering camera angle, the stomach, the freckle, the—

Ann had spread her fingers, displaying herself to Anne, whose mouth watered.

“I’m so wet,” Ann said. “As if I needed to tell you.”

“Ann. Let me see your face.”

Ann lifted the camera. Her expression was intense, and Anne knew she was continuing to touch herself. The little gasps came against parted lips.

“Your turn,” Ann said.

“What?”

“Money shot.”

“Surely I’m not—“

“Anne.” Ann’s sharp voice.

Anne lay on her back. She lifted the phone up for an aerial view of her parted legs. She felt clinical. Detached. She mimicked Ann, spreading herself, encouraging her clit, swollen between her fingers, to take center stage.

“Oh, Anne, if I could paint you...”

Anne exhaled slowly. Then said, “Let’s put the phones down.”

“Next to your ear,” Ann said.

“Right.”

They breathed together, echoing the sounds of their hands moving. Slick sounds. Then carnal. Anne dipped her middle finger inside herself, wishing Ann were doing it. It didn’t mean much, unless it were Ann possessing her, claiming her, marking her. “Ann,” she pleaded. Her voice cracked on Ann’s name.

“I can feel you watching,” Ann said. “Even though you’re not watching.”

“I’m here,” Anne said.

“I need you here. I—oh,” Ann’s choked voice stopped.

Everything was silent. Anne slowed her movements, intent on Ann’s every sound.

“I love you, Anne.” Then, “Show me your face.”

Anne lifted the phone, blinking until Ann’s face came into focus.

“There you are,” Ann said.

“Hi,” Anne said.

“Hi, baby,” Ann purred. “Are you going to come for me?”

“I don’t know if I can—" Anne’s fingers were already moving faster, pressing harder. She’d come in front of Ann many times, sometimes with Ann’s gaze on her just like this, happy and engaged, as if Anne’s orgasm was a prize to be won.

“I love to watch your face,” Ann said. “When you don’t want me to watch your face.”

Anne’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. Her teeth clenched.

“We have all night,” Ann said.

But Anne didn’t. Her need for Ann was too urgent, too consuming. She stroked herself with fervor, like pushing a rollercoaster up the hill. Almost—Almost to the screaming part, better with Ann holding her tight. Coming for Ann wasn’t a choice, it wasn’t a duty, it was an inevitable consequence. Anne shut her eyes. She gripped herself tight, spasming, raising her hips off the bed to chase the high, the shuddering orgasm that moved through her.

She let go of her breath first, sighing, barely hearing Ann.

“You’re so beautiful,” Ann was saying. “I could watch that forever.”

Ann sank into the bed, her eyes staying shut. She imagined looking down on herself. A woman with needs. A lover to stoke and sate them. It was precarious.

“Want to watch _The Masked Singer_?” Ann asked.

Anne laughed. “No.”

“Then open your eyes. Just talk to me.”

Anne rolled onto her side, opened her eyes, and looked into the phone.

“There’s my Anne,” Ann said.

“You have thrashed me,” Anne said.

Ann grinned. “I would like to think so. Tell me about New York...”


End file.
